GIFT  OF 


anb 


BY   HENRY   MEADE   BLAND 


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'There  glooms  El  Capitan,  and  o'er  an'd  'oVr  " 
Recounts  his  thunder-scars.   Be  silent  and  adore!" 


feljort 

IMMER    NUMBER    192O 


©uarterip 


PRICE.  5O  CENTS 

numml 


*5 

"BROAD  STRIPES  AND  BRIGHT  STARS." 


There  is  a  real  romantic  atmosphere  to  the  pioneer  history  of  our 
country  that  makes  almost  any  history  story  a  delight;  but  when  a  real 
story  teller  chooses  the  theme  rmd  puts  a  glamour  into  the  tale  one  of 
the  best  services  to  school  and  home  is  done. 

Carolyn  Shcnvin  Bailey  has  done  the  finest  of  this  recent  work. 
Choosing  themes  removed  from  the  conventional  patriotic  story  and  giv 
ing  her  work  attractive  titles,  "Broad  Stripes  and  Bright  Stars,''  the  new 
Bailey  book,  has  put  the  capstone  on  the  list  of  story-books  she  has  pro 
duced. 

Coming  at  the  time,  too,  when  interest  in  American  history  should 
be  kept  vigorously  alive,  this  work  should  lie  cordially  welcomed  tor  use 
in  every  teacher's  story  hour ;  and  placed  in  the  school  and  public  li 
braries. 

The  Book  is  attractive  in  print,  beautifully  illustrated  with  a  colored 
frontispiece,  with  many  cuts  of  dramatic  American  incident. 

.  Send  seventy-five  cents  to  Milton   Bradley   Company,   San  Francisco, 
for  a  copy  and  so  keep  your  Bailey  stories  complete. 

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I   MILLARD  BROS.   I 

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will  give  joy  to  your  friends,  not 

only  HOW  but  through  the 

years  to  come 


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study  the  many  styles  of  artistic 

pose  and  finish  at  the  studio  at 

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STUDENTS  OF  THE 

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The  Starland  Correspondence  School 

of  Poetry  and  Story 

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THE  STARLAND  CORRESPONDENCE  SCHOOL, 
Route  B,  Box  256,  San  Jose  Cal.     or  The  State  Normal  School 

LIFE. 


The  mysteries  of  being  are 
The  same  in  protoplast  and  star ; 
They  touch  us  in  the  hum  of  bee 
And  in  the  tumult  of  the  sea. 
The  same  in  microbe  of  the  slime, 
And  in  the  master  poet's  rhyme! 
The  same  in  fire  of  the  dawn, 
And  genius  of  Napoleon; 
The  same  in  rootlet  of  the  sod 
And  in  the  cherubim  of  God! 


I  BanK  of  Italy 

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=      Fresno,  Redwood  City,  Madera,  Stockton,  Santa  Rosa,  Ventura, 
=      Oakland,  Berkeley,  Fruitvale,  Melrose. 

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PHONE   SAN   JOSE   3350  C.  M.   SPENCER, 

Proprietor 

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FOR  MILLINERY 

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SAN  JOSE,  CALIFORNIA 


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After   the   autumn    shower ; 
The  last  to  doff  its  summer  red, 
A   fragile,   wind-blown   flower. 


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NEW  LOCATION— 15  E.  SANTA  CLARA  ST.        SAN  JOSE,  CAL. 


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such  as  have  prevailed  in  our  main  store  since  its  founda 
tion  in  the  early  seventies.  Our  rule  is  never  to  allow  a 
purchaser  to  be  dissatisfied. 


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are  specially  invited  to  inspect  our  stock. 

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BRANCH  MAIN  STORE 

So.  First  St.  near  San  Antonio  W.  Santa  Clara  St. 


THE  AMERICAN   DAIRY 
"Snow  White" 

Clean  and  Safe  Dairy  Products  are  an  Essential 
to  the  table  of  Every  Home. 

THE   AMERICAN   DAIRY  handles  only   Pasteurized 

Milk  and  Cream  in  Sterilized  Bottles. 

Luveda.     a  scientifically  prepared  buttermilk  made  with 

the   Bulgaricus   Bacillus   Culture,   is  a   satisfying  health 

drink.     You  will  find  it  fine  flavored. 

We  also  make  and  sell  the  BEST  OF  BUTTER. 
DELIVERED  EVERYWHERE 

The  American  Dairy! 

SEVENTEENTH  &  SANTA  CLARA  STREETS 
PHONE  S.  J.  344 


LET  US  TAKE  CARE  OF  YOUR 
ATHLETIC  NEEDS 

TENNIS  —  BASKETBALL 

Equipment  for  All  School  Games 

Bosclen  Hardware  Co, 

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WE  ARE  JUST  AS  STUDIOUS 

to  please  the  hundreds  that  enter  our  store  as  the  student  is  to 
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KNOWLEDGE  IS  POWER 

The  student  should  know  "Gordon,"  the  popular  allround  pho 
tographer  of  San  Jose. 

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Enlarging 


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ly  ground.  That's  why  it's  always  so 
fragrant,  rich,  and  satisfying.  Three  grades : 

Family    Blend — the  very   finest;   40c  Ib. 
Observatory    Blend — a     thoroughly    good 
coffee;  45c  Ib. 
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High  Class  Work  Moderately  Priced 

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"There  glows  the  great  Nevada,  haloed  white." 


'Thai  cataract  whose  glory  never   dies." 


SHORT    STORY 

IN 


Because  there  is  a  rosy  memory 

Of  stream  and  flower  and  a  face  divine 

Woven  with  high  crag  and  lilied  lea, 

1,  Inno,  Child  of  the  Dawn  and  the  White  Sunshine, 

Write  these  soft  rhymes  and  dare  to  call  them  mine. 

Now  in  sweet  fancy  am  I  again  a  boy, 

And  lose  myself  among  the  ancient  pine, 

Climbing  the  highest  cliff  in  silent  joy, 

Lorn  as  lorn  Paris  driven  by  Fate  from  song-built  Troy. 

Sweet  saintly  sister  of  the  golden  prime, 

Who  walked  the  high  Sierran  vale  with  me, 

Well  I  remember  in  that  starry  time, 

What  wonder  gleamed  from  stream  and  flower  and  tree! 

How  sang  the  winds  in  witching  revelry, 

Wild  as  by  nature-worshiper  e'er  heard ! 

And  merry  was  your  happy  company, 

That  breathed  itself  in  many  a  quiet  word 

Like  the  low  lilting  song  of  some  swift  homing  bird! 

How  can  I  read  the  glacier  chronicle, 

Of  heaped  moraine,  or  rock-wall  scarred  and  seamed: 

Its  story  seems  to  fall  sardonical 

Upon  the  yearning  soul  that  once  has  dreamed 

On  labyrinthine  mind  or  once  has  deemed 

Perfection  has  been  found  within  a  face, 

And  all  the  magic  of  that  face  is  reamed 

Into  his  brain,  woven  in  immortal  grace, 

Whose  beauty  only  an  eternal  love  can  trace. 

Clear  as  a  star  reflected  in  the  deep 

Of  silent  Mirror  Lake,  that  face  to  me ! 

No  breath  of  air  breaks  in  upon  the  sleep 

Of  jewelled  water,  shining  radiantly: 

Thus  in  that  quiet  lake  of  memory 

(As  in  that  silver  pool)  upon  the  star 

I  look  with  eager  wondering  eye  and  see 

The  meteor-flash  of  beauty  from  afar; 

And  fain  would  turn  the  key,  the  sacred  past  unbar. 

^Copyright  1920  by  Henry  Meade  Bland. 


*:  STORY    QUARTERLY 


inr  silence  by^ttie  mossed  stream, 
The  ousel  sings,  the  summer  clouds  are  high, 
My  mind  runs  only  to  a  single  theme — 
A  magic  face  that  ever  flashes  nigh. 
I  gaze  the  long  prospect  to  the  tender  sky : 
Lo,  it  is  there,  and  ever  seems  to  rise. 
Then  comes  the  gray  dove's  plaintive  loving  cry 
Only  to  be  broken  by  a  sweet  surprise; — 
Through  the  dark  fir  leaves  gleam  those  eager  talking  eyes 

Too  many  memories  ensnare  the  heart, 

And  seem  to  hold  me  from  the  days  to  be. 

Farewell,  O  time,  of  which  I  was  a  part. 

I  turn  in  rapture  unto  the  flowered  lea ! 

The  joyous  thrush  is  rhyming  now  for  me, 

The  waterfall  sings  all  the  summer  hour. 

Make  me,  O  Crag,  of  thine  eternity! 

Give  me,  O  Vale,  the  glory  of  thy  dower ! 

Touch  me,  I  pray,  with  thy  great  majesty  and  power! 

How  witching  now  to  linger  on  the  trail, 

A-list  for  the   first  night-melody  of  Pan 

Floating  afar  from  shadowy  rock  and  dale ! 

How  wild  the  revel  of  the  joyous  clan, 

Of  fairy  and  nymph,  a  merry  caravan, 

Hurrying  at  eve  from  tree  or  leafy  bower; 

Or,  when  the  new  moon  leads  the  starry  van, 

How  tragic-deep  the  voices,  hour  by  hour, 

Boomed  by  the  thundrous  fall  in  majesty  and  power. 

Perhaps  the  Master-Mind  has  subtly  given 
This,  the  great  glory  of  the  primal  world, 
Scarred  with  old  time  and  with  the  thunder  riven, 
Where  by  His  foot  the  stream  of  streams  lies  curled ; 
That,  turning  thence  to  where  in  power  is  whirled 
The  wheel  by  which  He  shapes  the  soul  of  man, 
One  may  adore  the  flash  divine  unfurled 
Upon  the  brow  of  smiling  child,  or  span 
The  way  unfolding  life's  inexplicable  plan. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 


Those  springs  that  sparkle  like  the  Pleiads  seven; 

Those  spires  and  towers  that  reach  unto  the  skies; 

Those  winding  trails,  like  paths  high  unto  heaven; 

Those  winds  that  sing  the  songs  of  Paradise; 

That  storm  that  shouts  and  roars,  or  wails  and  sighs; 

Those  streams  that  leap  and  dash  and  wind  and  wind; 

That  cataract  whose  glory  never  dies ! — 

Is  not  this  wonder  infinite  and  designed 

To  be  the  emblem  eternal  of  the  Immortal  Mind ! 


All  the  sweet  harmonies  of  Eden-Time 

Are  here.     The  Winds  in  summer  melody 

The  water-ousel  song ;  the  rippled  rhyme 

Of  snowy  waters,  and  the  minstrelsy 

Of  immemorial  pine.  Such  harmony 

Greek  Homer  played;  on  such  a  steep  he  sang 

When  that  he  fashioned  white  and  joyously 

The  throne  of  Jove  :  for,  as  his  music  rang. 

Straightway  the  temple  of  the  gods  in  glory  sprang. 

Once  on  the  trail  I  stood  while  sombre  clouds 
Loomed  threateningly  around  the  Valley  rim, 
Swaying  in  ominous,  shadowy,  angry  crowds — 
Dark  offspring  of  the  summery  seraphim, — 
Who  sang  a  deep,  titanic,  snow-born  hymn ; 
Then  came  the  thunder,  not  a  single  crash, 
But  like  the  shout  of  hosting  cherubim : 
The  day  was  night,  and  fiercely  lash  on  lash, 
Wild  dome  and  spire  signaled  many  a  fiery  flash. 

There  gleams  the  rainbow  over  Vernal  Fall. 
There  glows  the  great  Nevada,  haloed  white, 
And  haughty  Half  Dome  lifts  his  granite  wall 
Where  bold  Tenaya  flashes  mystic  light. 
The  clear  Mercedes  wings  in  gentle  flight 
Where  the  Great  Fall  is  singing  evermore ! 
The  Bridal  Maiden  laughs,  a  radiant  sprite. 
There  glooms  El  Capitan,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Recounts  his  thunder-scars.  Be  silent  and  adore ! 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 


A  hundred  thousand  years  of  mountain  bloom ! — 

The  tall  Oenotheras,  the  mimulus,  the  blue 

Pentstamon,  fabric  woven  in  the  loom 

Of  April ;  violets  dipped  in  sunlit  dew, 

Lilies  and  daisies  and  all  the  lightsome  crew 

Of  poppy  and  heartsease  for  which  lovers  yearn, 

New  form  their  fragrance  and  their  gallant  hue. 

Snowdrop,  Azalea,  and  the  rose  eterne, 

And  all  the  fine  embroidery  of  leaf  and  fern ! 

In  such  a  vale  beloved  Endymion 

Reclined  when  Adonais  secret-dwelt 

Within  his  bower  deep-hidden  from  the  sun; 

Where  twilight  mysteries  forever  melt 

Into  the  starlight,  and  through  the  night  are  felt 

Strange  presences  unseen.     In  such  a  vale 

The  star-crowned  Bard  of  shining  Avon  dealt 

With  Fate,  creating  ghost  or  phantom  pale 

Telling  of  love  and  war  in  many  a  sweet-sung  tale. 

The  great  Earth-Mother  carved,  long,  long  ago, 

And  fretted  these  high  crags,  and  gently  drew 

Her  finger  in  the  sand.     She  taught  the  snow 

The  way  of  the  stream.     She  hung  the  rose  with  dew. 

She  hollowed  out  the  caves,  and  tuned  anew 

The  hills  to  low  Aeolian  refrain : 

She  gave  the  sky  its  deep  eternal  blue : 

She  changed  the  snow  to  singing  summer  rain; 

And  trailed  the  ancient  hills,  an  endless  golden  chain. 

Here  lorn  Niam,  the  Oread  of  the  Wind, 

Waits  by  the  shadowy  river's  flowered  stream, 

Moaning  and  sighing  because  she  cannot  find 

Her  lover.     She  waits  where  gleam  on  gleam 

The  lightning  flashes  in  a  joy  supreme, 

Till  longing  sweet  o'er-fills  her  eyes  of  blue,— 

Waits  the  old  tryst  upon  the  hills  of  Dream, 

Her  loved  Caolte  promised  to   renew, 

And  now  she  spreads  her  couch  in  many  a  sunlit  hue. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 


And  here  star-eyed  Idalean  Venus  rose, 
Bewitching  messenger  from  gods  to  men. 
Greek  Hermes,  so  the  Attic  story  goes, 
Averred  she  was  born  of  foam:  clear  to  his  ken 
He  saw  her  spring  fairer  than  poet's  pen 
Ever  set  forth.     He  erred.     The  magic  One, 
Sweet  Love,  leapt  from  the  glorious  rainbow  when 
The  great  Fall  was  wed  unto  the  noonday  Sun, 
Fairest  of  all  beauty  great  Poesy  has  spun. 


Here  on  a  flowery  day  came  John  o'  the  Mountain, 
And  shaped  he  many  a  far  and  deep-hid  trail. 
He  saw  with  loving  eye  each  stream  and  fountain 
And  sought  each  secret  of  the  rain-bowed  vale; 
Until  the  white-winged  angel,  Israefale, 
Touched  him  and  beckoned,  and  gently  upward  led 
Him  over  the  Range  of  Light;  and  now  his  tale 
Is  told  in  flower  and  stream  and  sunset  red, 
And  every  tree  the  wilding  folk  have  tenanted. 


And  I,  too,  came  and  saw,  and  loved;  and  listened 
To  the  divine  song  of  cataract  and  air; 
Gazed  where  the  starry  domes  in  wonder  glistened: 
Where  the  high  towering  fir  were  ever  fair; 
Dreamed  by  the  river,  watched  with  tender  care 
The  robin  build,  and  many  a  happy  hour, 
Trailed  through  the  meadow  where  the  debonair 
Sunshiny  blossoms  made  a  witching  bower, 
Fashioned  of  buttercups  the  happy  children's  dower. 


All  the  long  summer  afternoon  me-seemed 

To  have  been  borne  unto  that  Aiden-Land, 

Where  sweet  the  smiling  leaves  of  lotus  dreamed, 

The  spiced  pine  soothed  with  many  a  fragrant  hand, 

The  happy  brook  laughed  over  the  silver  sand; 

Only  by  Pan's  wild  flutes  was  the  silence  broken 

While   rosy  Iris  arched  her  flashing  band. 

Love  drank  libations  from  his  chalice  oaken 

And  a  new  friendship  smiled  with  many  a  happy  token. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 

The  rainbow  fades  upon  the  purple  hill, 

But  in  the  soul  its  glories  never  die ; 

A  smile  may  pass  as  ripples  on  a  rill, 

But  in  true  hearts  its  circles  ever  lie : 

The  gold  that  passes  from  the  morning  sky, 

Is  gold  forever  in  great  Memory's  reign : 

Psyche  is  ever  a  tenant  in  love's  sigh, 

And  gentle  Baldur,  by  blind  Hoder  slain, 

Is   deathless  in  spring's  never-ending  flower-train. 


SEERRAN  PAN. 

I  am  fire  and  dew  and  sunshine, 

I  am  mist  on  the  foamy  wave, 
I'm  the   rippling  note   from  the   field-lark's   throal 

I'm  the  jewel  hid  in  the  cave. 

.  I'm  the  lightning  flash  on  the  mountain, 

And  the  cold  rose-red  of  the  dawn, 
I'm  the  odor  of  pine  and  purple  vine, 

And  the  willowy  leap  of  the  fawn. 

I'm  the  sigh  of  the  south  wind  of  autumn, 
I'm  the  scent  of  the  earth  at  first  rain, 

I'm  the  wild  honker  call  of  the  earliest  fall, 
I'm  the  yellow  of  ripening  grain. 

I'm  the  music  no  singer  has  dreamed  of, 

I'm  joy  in  the  heart  of  man; 
I'm  the  lyric  time  of  no  poet's  rhyme, 

I'm  the  glad,  the  immortal  Pan.  ' 


THE  POPPY. 


The   first  to   lift  its   golden  head 
After   the   autumn   shower ; 
The  last  to  doff  its  summer  red, — 
A    fragile,    wind-blown    flower. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 
SEPTEMBER. 


A  twitter  of  wrens,  a  rustle  of  leaves, 
How  sweet  'tis  to  remember! 

Such  is  the  magic  nature  weaves 
When   it  is  mild   September. 

A  gossamer  on  the  gentle  wind, 
White  as  the  snow  of  December, 

Bright  as  a  spirit  unconfined; 
And  it  is  mild  September. 

A  honker  call  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 
Prophetic  of  November. 

'Tis  answered  by  the  flock's  high  cry- 
Yes,  it  is  mild  September. 

A  zephyry  odor  from  the  pine, 

Light  as  a  flashing  ember; 
A  lark  song  with  a  lilt  divine — 

Oh,  it  is  mild  September! 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


I  sailed  away 

In  thought  one  day 

Out  where  a  mighty  squadron  lay; 

But  the  sailors  laughed 

And  took  my  craft, 

And  broke  my  spar  in  play. 

Out  and  afar 

O'er  the  storm-beat  bar 

That  squadron  sailed ; 

But  never  a  tar 

Came  from  that  sea 

But  one,  and  he 

Came  tied  to  my  broken  spar. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 
THE  MAN  OF  THE  TRAIL. 


A  spirit  that  pulses   forever, 
Like  the  fiery  heart  of  a  boy ; 
A  forehead  that  lifts  to  the  sunlight, 
And  is  wreathed  forever  in  joy; 
A  muscle  that  holds  like  the  iron, 
That  binds-in  the  prisoner,  steam; 
Lo !  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory ; 
Lo !  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream  I 

An  eye  that  catches  the  radiance 
That  gleams  from  mountain  and  sky; 
And  an  ear  that  awakes  to  the  music 
Of  the  storm  as  it  surges  on  high; 
A  sense  that  garners  the  splendor 
Of  sun,  moon  or  starry  gleam; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory ; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream ! 

The  wild  high  climb,   o'er  the  mountain 
The  lodge  by  the  river's  brim; 
The  glance  at  the  fierce  cloud-horses, 
As  they  plunge  over  the  range's  rim; 
The  juniper's  balm   for  the  nostrils, 
The  dash  in  the  whitening  stream ; 
Lo !   these  are  the  Trailman's  glory ; 
LO  !  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream ! 


The  ride  down  the  wild  river-canyon, 
Where  the  wild  oats  grow  breast-high ; 
The  shout  of  the  quail  on  the  hillside; 
The  turtle  dove  flashing  by; 
An  eve  round  the  fragrant  fire, 
And  the  tales   of  heroic  theme; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  glory; 
Yea,  these  are  the  Trailman's  dream! 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 


THE  WIND  AMONG  THE  EAVES. 


'Tis  the  deep  of  autumn  twilight, 
And  I  sit  beside  the  fire, 
Watching  how,   like  yearning  spirits, 
Reddening  flames  rise  high  and  higher: 
Then  I  catch  the  first  faint  singing, 
That  the  magic  twilight  weaves, 
And  sit  spell-bound  by  the  music 
Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves. 

O  that  vagrant  soulful  runeing, 
Like  a  song  that  floats  from  far 
O'er  soft  wavy  summer  waters 
That  reflect  the  evening  star! 
Is  there  ever  any  message 
That  the  heart  or  soul  receives 
Like  this  dithyrambic  haunting 
Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves? 

Druid  with  his  burning  lyre, 
Pan's  sweet  measure  on  his  flute, 
Hebrew  wrapt  in  endless  yearning, 
Poet  with  his  deathless  lute — 
All  of  these  and  more  enchanting! 
Who  is  he  that  e'er  conceives 
Half  this  melody  ecstatic 
Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves 

Chirp  of  cricket  in  the  meadow, 

Moan  of  dove  or  hum  of  bee, 

Croon  of  crane  in  mild  September, 

Voice  of  one  loved  tenderly, 

Lyric  lilt  or  epic  sorrow ; 

Heart  that  triumphs,   soul  that  grieves— 

All  are  one  in  this  wild  paean 

Of  the  wind  around  the  eaves! 


10         SHORT  STORY  QUARTERLY 


THE  NORTH  WIND. 


1  come  from  far, 

By  the  northern  star, 

Where  the  cold   white  silence  lies ; 
Where  the  wild  waves  war 
On  the  Yukon  bar, 

And  the  drear,  cold  icebergs  rise. 

To  the  ocean  caves 
I  roll  great  waves, 

As   I  wheel    down   the   rock-bound   coast 
And  the  weird  cliff  raves, 
As  the  seaman  braves 

The  angry  scream  of  my  host. 

On  the  pulsing  tide 
I  ride  and  ride, 

Till  the  mad  waves  leap  and  run; 
Nor  is  staid  my  stride 
Till  my  legions  abide 

In  the  isles  of  the  tropic  sun. 

I  moan  and  wail 
In  the  tattered  sail 

Of  the  helmless  sea-worn  bark; 
And  my  wild  fierce  gale 
Leaves  never  a  trail 

Of  the  keel  I  swirl  in  the  dark. 

I  was  strong  and  young 
When  the  years  first  flung 

The  groves  of  Eden  in  bloom; 
And   the  paeans  sung 
By  my  brazen  tongue 

Shall  chant  till  the  hour  of  doom. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY  U 

HUNTING  SONG. 


When   thee   sweet   south   wind   comes   singing 
Through  the   shining  oak-tree  leaves, 
And  the  white  wild  goose  comes  winging, 
And  the  winds  cry  at  the  eaves : 

When  the  mallard's  wing  at  moon-rise 
Whistles  through  the  deepening  blue, 
And  you  hear  the  crane's  low  croon  rise, 
I'll  be  coming  home  to  you. 

When  you  light  the  autumn  fire, 
And  the  flames  dance  on  the  floor ; 
And  the  sparks  climb  high  and  higher 
As  white  souls  climb  evermore, 

If  the  runeing  of  the  cricket 
Makes  you  tingle  through  and  through, 
Then  you'll  know  the  swing  of  the  wicket, 
For  I'm  coming  home  to  you. 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER. 

Sweep  on,  O  tide,  across  the  yellow  sands, 
And  rock  the  birds,  and  flash  the  autumn  moon! 
No   more  the  long  unbroken   summer   dream, 
The  days  are  gone,  and,  oh,  too  soon! 

And  thou,  O  wave,  upon  the  distant  crag 
Break  thy  wild  heart  from  dawn  to  golden  dawn! 
No  more  will  I  the  rolling  billows  ride. 
The  oar  is  lost,  the  rudder  gone! 

And  thou,  my  most  beloved,  who  changest  not 
Line  foamy  tide  or  briny  summer  wind; 
I  have  a  realm  I  consecrate  to  thee, 
An  inland  of  contented  mind! 


12  SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 

THE  CONDOR. 


He    sits   upon   his   watch-tower,  —  yonder   peak, 
And  gazes  as  the  autumn  sun  goes  down  ; 
And  I,  too,  on  my  somber  hill  await 
The  sun  to  rim  the  far-off  mountain  crown. 

His  wings  are  now  aslant  as  if  to  sail 
Into  the  light  he  gazes  at  so  fond 
And  well  I  know  he  only  holds  his  flight 
Till  the  last  fire  dips  the  gulf  beyond. 

And  as  he,  when  his  golden  sun  is  gone, 
Wheels  and  is  off  upon  a  flight  unknown 
So  when  my  light  sinks  to  the  sapphire  hill 
Shall  I  my  sure  flight  wing  unto  mine  own. 


LOVE'S  PURPOSE. 


Love  brings  the  blush  into  the  fair  wild  rose; 
And  paints  the  white  upon  the  heron's  plume, 
And  flings  into  wild  dream  the  prophet's  prose ; 
And  points  the  starry  lights  in  midnight  gloom. 

Love  sends  the  gleam  into  the  infant's  eye ; 
And  makes  the  rustle  in  the  bladed  corn, 
Instills  the  sweetness  in  the  lover's  sigh, 
Flashes  the  red  into  the  whitening  morn. 

And  if  love  did  not  with  her  shining  wand 
Entrance  the  sea  and  earth  and  wondrous  sky, 
Chaos  would  break  his  old  restraining  bond; 
And  earth  would  crumble  and  the  stars  would  die. 

* 

THE  DIVINE  IN  NATURE. 


On   Shasta's  brow  the  thunder  sleeps; 
But,  with  the   lightning's  blazing  rod, 
That  burns  o'er  Lassen's   fiery  steeps, 
A  voice  comes  from  the  mountain  deeps: 
"Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God!" 

O'er  Yuba's  plain  the    North  wind  raves, 
And  withers  herb  and  blackens  sod; 
But,   in  the  wild  lake's  roaring  waves, 
Is  heard  as  from  a  thousand  caves : 
"Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God!" 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY  13 


SUNRISE  OVER  THE  SIERRAS. 

I  mind  me  how  one  day-break  long  ago. 
I  heard  the  wild  swan  play  his  magic  horn ; 
Heard  the  cold  north  wind  blow  his  pipe  forlorn 
Heard  the  sweet  stream  purl  gently  to  and  fro 
In  oaten  meadows;  while  the  lyric  flow 
Of  field-lark  hymn  called  to  the  splendid  morn 
Until  the  sun,  a  light  divine,  new-born, 
Lifted— a  wild  flash  ov«r  the  virgin  snow. 

Then  stood  I  like  the  holy  orient  priest, 
Who  gave  unto  the  fire  a  sacred  name, 
And  ever  burned  his  altar  in  the  East; 
Or  like  the  rapturous  poet-king  who  came 
At  morn,  as  to  a  pentactostal  feast, 
And  saw  Jehovah  in  the  Rising  Flame! 


THE  BLUE-BELL. 

You  ask,  why  for  the  rose  I  have  no  care, 

Why  choose  I  not  to  wear 

The  lily  fair? 

My   flower,  you  say, 

Is  dull  and  grey, 

And    common   everywhere.    I    answer:    '"Tis   not 

perfume  rare, 

Nor  pollen-burst,  nor  petal-glare, 
To  which  my  faith  I  truly  swear; 
But  to  this  weedy  wind-blown  tare : 
Because,  once  in  the  garden  there, 
My  own  true  love 
A  chaplet  wove 
Of  it,  and  garlanded  her  hair." 


THE  MEADOW-LARK. 

Sweet  Pan  one  time  toiled  all  the  morning  long 
To  bring  forth  from  an  oat  a  merry  song. 
At  last  it  came  and,  on  her  willowy  bough, 
A  field  lark  caught  and  treasured  it  till  now. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 

JUNE, 

Green  of  the  earth,  blue  of  the  sky, 
Flash  of  the  stream  as  it  ripples  by  ! 
Bud  of  the  flower,  song  of  the  bird,  — 
How  can  one  think  an  unhappy  word 

Smile  of  the  child,  joy  of  the  youth, 
Revel  of  both  in  the  sunshine  of  Truth; 
Stir  of  the  wind  and  hum  of  the  bee,  — 
Goes  it  not  all  to  the  'heart  of  me? 

Faith  of  the  woman,  strength  of  the  man; 
Flash  of  the  rain,  and  the  rainbow  span! 
Joy  is  out  in  the  world  at  play,  — 
Is  it  not  good,  this  new  June  day? 


IN  A  SIERRA  FOREST. 


Here   elfin   songs  are  sung  forevermore, 
Waking  sweet  echoes  of  the  pipes  of  Pan. 
Here  dance  the  nymphs  to  music  sweeter  than 
The  strains  that  ever  blew  from  Lesbian  shore. 
Here,  too,  Apollo  plays  his  rhythmics  o'er 
And  shapes  a  temple  for  the  soul  of  man. 
Here  we  may  lift  our  brightening  eyes  and  scan 
The  magic  regions  never  known  before. 

Here  Morn  comes  glorying  from  her  snowy  portal 
And  rims  the  mountains  with  her  fire  immortal. 
Here   Noon  lilts  melodies  forever  new, 
And  burns  her  incense  over  wilds  of  blue  ; 
And  Eve  with  kindnesses  that  never  fail 
Croons  gently,  and  recounts  a  lover's  tale. 


ON  THE  LIFE-TRAIL. 

I   only  keep  a-climbing. 
I  know  the  stars  of  God  are  overhead  ; 
And   by  yon   far-off  gleaming  spirit-wand, 
The  meteor's  gleam,   I  know  that  I  am  led 
And  so  I  keep  a-climbing. 

I    only   keep    a-climbing. 

It  may  be  yon  blue  range  will  be  the  last; 

It  may  be  many  others  loom  beyond; 

And  yet  I  know  the  summit  will  be  passed, 

And  so  I  keep  a-climbing. 


SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY  15 

ELEMENTAL  BEAUTY. 

Yea,  evermore  I  feel  myself  in  love 
With  elemental  things;  the  reddening  rose; 
The  flowing  stream;  the  wind  that  gently  blows 
O'er  meadows  oaten;  the  note  of  mating  dove; 
The  woodland  sweet  with  blossoms  interwove ; 
The  field-lark  singing  in  the  willow-close; 
And  every  bud  that  in  the  garden  grows: 
The  star  eternal  orbed  in  blue  above! 

And  oh,  this  love  for  beauty  in  the  field, 
This  wonder-love  for  elemental  things? 
Lo,  as  I  muse  on  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
I  am  as  one  who  stands  with  soul  revealed — 
A  lyric  bard,  who,  high-exalting,  sings, 
Unto  the   World-Heart  throbbing  deathlessly ! 


A  SONG  OF  JOY. 

Joy!   Joy!   Infinite  joy 
Wild  as  the  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  boy; 
Clean  as  the  soul  of  the  laughing  breeze; 
Pure  as  the  heart  of  the  dryad  trees! 

The  sky  is  mine,  the  earth  is  mine, 
The  air  and  the  sea  and  all  that  is; 
But  when  I  shall  pass  I  shall  walk  divine 
In  ways  more  starry  fair  than  this ! 

I  say  I  have  lived  in  a  joyous  world 
Where  every  loving  dream  comes  true ; 
With  comfort  and  plenty  around  me  curled, 
Where  every  moment  is  fresh  and  new. 

It's  great— this  life  on  the  hills  of  Time, — 
To  follow  the  gleam,  and  still  endure, 
To  strive  in  joy  for  the  High   Subljme, 
And  know  that  the  way  of  love  >s  l\lvel  I  \  . 


16  SHORT    STORY    QUARTERLY 

A  DAY  ON  SUMMER  SEAS. 


The  sunrise-flash  and  the  sky-flame; 

The  blue  sea  calm  as  the  stars; 

The  long  strong  pull  at  the  oar-locks; 

And  the  gull  on  the  white  sand-bars ! 

The  morn  is  a  rose-red  ruby ; 

An  orient  sapphire  the  sea ! 

Yes,  these  are  the  treasures   I'm  after, 

And  this  is  the  booty  for  me ! 

I  hear  the  crash  of  the  breaker; 
And  the  song  of  the  wild  bell-buoy; 
And  the  lyric  sweep  of  the  sea-wind, 
As  it  sings  of  the  new-coming  joy ! 
Conies  ozone   from  magical  islands 
Afloat  on  the  morning  breeze — 
Was  there  ever  a  Circean  bower 
Bore  perfumes  enchanted  as  these? 

The  white  sail-flash  in  the  sunshine ; 
The  swish  of  the  long  salmon-line; 
The  fisherman  tense  at  the  gunwhale; 
The  bark  rich  with  spoil  from  the  brine ! 
The  sea-rover  proud  of  his  capture, 
And  preening  his  sail  for  home-flight ; 
And,  swifter  than  thought,  for  his  loved  ones 
He  flies  as  with  wings  of  light ! 

The  race  to  the  mild,  sheltered  haven 
With  the  fresh  gale  swinging  behind; 
The  gossamer-white  of  the  foam-wreath 
The  song  of  the  sails  in  the  wind; 
A  soul  that  is  lighter  than  rock-spray 
Back  from  its  wonderful  quest, 
And  lost  in  the  mystical  dream-world, 
Of  the  great  unmatchable  West! 

The  kindly  light  in  the  faces 
That  watch  when  the  day  is  done; 
The  friendly  smile  of  the  comrades, 
And  the  twilight  of  love  has  begun ! 
The  rest  in  the  vine-covered  arbor, 
With  a  vision  of  da<ys  to  be : 
Ahd  one-  mare /g^ntie  adventure 
•Is- gone 'as  the  foam  ol-the  sea! 


And  haughty  Half  Dome  lifts  his  granite  wall. 


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JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

Doer  of  wild  deeds,  singer  of  wilder  songs, 
He  was  of  them  to  whom  unrest  belongs. 

No  desert  pass,  or  sky-born  mountain  rim, 
But  had  an  ever-changing  trail  for  him! 

Wherever  life  was  young  and  fresh  and  bold 
There  was  his  way ;  wherever  life  was  old, 

And  touched  with  dusty  age,  that  deeply  peered 
Into  the  past,  thither  his  footstep  veered. 

lie   drank   life   deep  in  wood-grown  Oregon, 
And  where  white  Shasta  gleams,  a  rising  sun. 

From  where  Willamette  wears  her  diadem 
Of  camas  e'en  to  far  Jerusalem, 

The  unforgotten,   to  the  untracked  plain 
Of  Amazon,  unto  Alaska's  chain 

Of  golden  hills  he  journeyed,  then  afar 
Where  shines  Luzon,  a  gleaming  orient  star; 

Then  on  the  ocean's  wild  and  flying  foam, 
Until  he  loitered  in  the  heart  of  Rome- 
Yet  but  a  moment;  driven  by  fate  purblind 
Homed  with  the  Aztec,  then  in  peace  divined 

A  lodge   where  he  in  quiet  might  abide 

By  that  calm  bay  where  the  world's  navies  ride, 

Where  the  low  hills,  in  fold  on  emerald  fold 
Look  out  forever  on  a  Gate  of  Gold, 

Great  son  of  the  lyric,  happy,  primal  West, 
He  gave  the  world  whate'er  was  in  him  best, — 

The  vital  things  of  which  he  was  a  part, — 
His  book,  his  love,  his  soul,  his  'earnest  heart, 

Scattering  his  joy  in  flowers,  in  trees,  in  rills, 
He  wove  his  spirit  in  these  gentle  hills. 


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SUMMER,    1920 


No.  5 


THE  PACIFIC  SHORT  STORY   CLUB   QUARTERLY 
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WAFFLES  AND  COFFEE  THAT  WILL 
MAKE  YOU  SMILE 

OPPOSITE  HOTEL  MONTGOMERY 


REGISTER  IN 

The  Fisk 
Teachers'  Agency 

Rooms  4,  5  and  6,  Wright  Building,  2161  Shattuck  Avenue, 

BERKELEY,  CALIFORNIA 


The  Agency  That  Fills  Positions 


REFERENCES  (BY  PERMISSION)     Professors    Lange    and    Boone,    of   the 
University   of    California;    Henry    Meade    Bland,    Supervisor   of    English, 
State   Normal   School,   San  Jose,  Cal. ;   Professor  Cubberley,  of  Stanford  . 
University ;   Superintendents  Wilson  of  Berkeley ;  Hughes,  of  Sacramento, 

and  many  others. 

The  Fisk  Teachers'  Agency  is  the  standard  by  which  other  agencies 
are  judged.  It  is  the  largest  and  one  of  the  oldest  of  American  teachers' 
agencies,  having  branches  in  eight  cities,  east  and  west.  It  has  filled  about 
50,000  positions,  at  salaries  aggregating  $35,000,000.  The  positions  in 
clude  25  college  presidencies,  over  400  city  superintendences,  over 
12,000  high  school  positions,  including  over  2600  principalships, 

i  about  12,000  positions  in  graded  schools,  including  about  2000 
principalships,  over  3000  rural  school  positions,  and  about  7000 
special  positions,  such  as  music,  drawing,  manual  training,  domes- 

!         tic  science,   commercial    branches,   etc. 

•  The  Fisk  Teachers'   Agency  is  peculiarly  fitted   to   assist  you   in   se 

curing  a  position.  Its  facilities  for  obtaining  prompt  and  reliable  informa 
tion  direct  from  school  authorities  are  unsurpassed,   and  its  methods  of 
'         serving  both  teachers  and  school  officials  are  such  as  to  win  for  it  their 
|        confidence  and  respect  in  a  high  degree.     School  officials  justly  rely  upon    .    ' 
i         its  recommendations,  because  of  the  care  which  the  Agency  exercises  in        j 
each  individual  case,  and  hundreds  of  teachers  will  gladly  testify  to  the        f 
f        efficient  and  reliable  service  it  has  rendered  them.     The  managers  will  be        { 
glad  to  have  you  write  or  call  at  the  office.     The  most  careful  attention  is 
given  to  every  teacher. 

JOHN  B.   STEARNS  and  J.   M.   HAHN, 

Managers.  \ 

I 


:>    ^ 


i 


Gaylord  Bros. 

Makers 

Syracuse,  N.  Y 
PAT.  JAN.  21,  1908 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CDSSE3b37S 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


